


Some People Never Learn

by aiIenzo



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:46:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4696148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiIenzo/pseuds/aiIenzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray learns, and Ryan is soft, the underbelly of the beast exposed, but Ryan doesn’t seem troubled by the vulnerability. Just reminds Ray to stay vigilant. Keep his gun at his side, always. Learn what power means. Know how to obtain it. (GTAV AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some People Never Learn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allonsymckenzie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsymckenzie/gifts).



> A gift for allonsymckenzie, because we both know that sweet sting of betrayal. Also, seeing as how she is my beta and I wanted to surprise her, this work is edited entirely by me, so apologies for errors.

Neither of them had intended on a partnership. But really, for all of Ryan’s machismo and intimidating and fear-mongering, he wasn’t exactly an expert on the range. He’d sooner dislocate your jaw with his .45 than get a full round into you. It wasn’t a fault as much as an inconvenience, as more than once he’s had to struggle to remove a blade from someone’s neck in enough time to use it on the next guy.

Ray, on the other hand, was enlightened. Weapons were an extension of his body, and the trigger was linked directly to the neurons that fired in his brain each time he lined up a shot. He was a marksman in his sleep, and the term “warning shot,” didn’t exist in his vocabulary. The splatters of blood that would light up the walls were Christmas to him, and every moment left him hungry for more. 

Ryan appreciated that. A craving for carnage, a light-hearted approach to a fucked up psyche. They didn’t have a problem. They didn’t have individual problems anyway, they just knew what they liked. And blood streaks on a custom car was something they liked. And the money and coke wasn’t bad, either. 

It had almost a year since they blended, playing off each other’s skill sets like rungs on a ladder, reaching them to new heights, belittling those behind them. There was a casualty to their friendship, and a criminal connection that bordered telepathic. Soon, written plans faded to hand gestures, which became meaningful glances, until they could operate solely, no earpieces, no expressions, no communication. They were in and out, completing their heists with lethal accuracy. 

They knew their minds, and they knew each other. 

 

///

 

13 months in, and things were steady. They had tied up their perp, the only informant to the disappearance of nearly 200 kilos of heroin. It was a dingy room in an even dingier apartment, with boarded windows and a large collection of locks on the doors. 

Ryan was pacing slowly, watching his blade glint in the yellow lights above him. The man tied in the chair was watching him cautiously, eyes wide with trepidation and quickened breath. 

“It was nice of you to set the place up for us, Glen. I didn’t even need to cover the windows,” Ryan said to the room, almost cheerfully. His voice was dark, but with a constant hint of malice. A flair of intellect that never truly subsided. 

Sometimes, it would bring Ray discomfort. Despite his skill and despite his kill count, he never quite felt he measured up to Ryan. There was a past there, a back story he would never know. Ray had his own fucked up tales, but Ryan…Ryan was practiced. His record was deep and unsettling, and his presence radiated true, unchecked mania. Ray never felt unsafe, but he always felt inferior. 

He was laying on his back across Glen’s kitchen table, only a few feet from Ryan and the unfortunate chair-bound man. Half a bottle of beer dangled from one hand as he used the thumb of his other to try and scrub blood off of his VP70. 

“Get on with it man, I’ve got to take a leak,” Ray mumbled, scratching the blood smear harder. 

Glen spit in Ray’s general direction, which caused Ray to raise an eyebrow, but not much else. Ryan backhanded Glen without much thought, waiting patiently to see the smirk Ray always got at the sound of teeth hitting the floor. Ray never could help himself.

“How long would it take you to pry the rest of his teeth out, Vagabond?”

Ryan walked over to him, ruffling in the bag by Ray’s feet as a response. “Quite a bit, I think. I forgot the pliers.”

“Amateur,” Ray smiled, and they met eyes for the briefest moments, sparks of humor alighting the deep recess of pain and cruelty they both carried with them. But it was gone as soon as it came, a public persona winning out over a brief misstep. 

“Do what you want,” Glen spat, blood pooling from his mouth as he mumbled through his words. “I’ve been tortured before.”

Ray looked over at him, bemused. “Would you rather him kill you, then?”

Glen smirked at him, all bruises and broken teeth. “You won’t. You need me. I’m the only guy in this whole fucking city that knows where the stash is. You kill me, you’ll never get to it. And never get your money.”

Ryan stood above him and ran his blade down the side of Glen’s cheek, leaving a small rivet of blood. His eyes were soft, watching the red slide down the silver of his knife, cherishing the look on Glen’s face as he winced. 

Ryan’s voice was calm, collected, but dangerous. He bent close to Glen, moving his hand until the blade rested against the tender flesh of Glen’s neck, pressing deep. 

“Don’t ever tell me what I’m not able to do.”

And just like that, blood became a river, streaming from the four inch gash Ryan opened on Glen’s neck. He split at the seams, trying to suck in breath as hot blood stained his grimy white shirt, eyes pleaded, begged, prayed, until they rolled back into his head, and his body slumped forward. The puddle beneath his chair was already growing rapidly, and Ryan stepped back, hardly trying to hide the glint of lust in his eyes. The madness. 

Ray ignored it. It was commonplace now, and hardly concerning to him. He sat up, cracking his back, the noise lost against the splattering of blood on tile. “Do we have another informant I don’t know about?”

Ryan didn’t answer, but proceeded to wipe his knife clean and pick up his bag. 

Ray sighed. “You can’t just kill everyone that cops an attitude with you, man.”

“I haven’t killed you,” Ryan offered, zipping up the duffel bag and lugging it over his shoulder. “Yet.”

“Fair,” Ray agrees, shrugging. “But did you really need to kill him first? Couldn’t you off him  _after_ we had gotten the information?”

“Information isn’t power,” Ryan retorts, stepping cautiously past the puddle of thick blood. “I didn’t want him to die thinking that he had held any hold over us. Over me.”

“You can’t treat these jobs like personal vendettas,” Ray says, hopping off the table and stuffing his pistol into the back of his pants. “Besides, I’ve always heard that having information is the tits. You can have power over anyone, have them in the palm of your hand.”

“It’s imposing, sure,” Ryan agrees, opening the door for Ray as they peered down the hallway together, looking for signs of life, listening for sirens. “But not the most powerful. You’ve got a lot to learn.”

Ray couldn’t disagree with him.

 

///

 

It’s 14 months in, and someone blows up Ray’s apartment. 

Well, the whole building, actually. And Ray is torn between absolute, fucking crushing grief (his weapon stash, oh,  _fuck_ , all of it), and rage that it hadn’t actually been a hit on him, but some dude’s multiple homicide revenge on a gang that had raped his wife. Sure, in the months to come, Ray could truly admire the guys balls for vengeance, but as he watched his building burn, there was nothing but despair. 

Ryan is next to him, an RPG casually resting against his shoulder, and he’s handling the weight like a fucking champ, but all Ray can feel is blatant jealousy that Ryan even has an arsenal anymore. 

“Told you to keep your guns in a warehouse,” Ryan smirks, and Ray hates him,  _hates_ him, and he goes to deck him in the mouth but Ryan sidesteps easily, even with the 20 pound anti-tank on his shoulder, and smiles. Ray swipes again and Ryan catches the fist easily, but there’s no madness in his eyes, just a casual smile, a teasing, shit-eating smirk, and Ray is shaking in fury. 

“ _Fuck_ you, Ryan!”

But Ryan twists, just slightly, and Ray feels it in his bones. He’s an inch away from breaking Ray’s arm and Ray really,  _really_ needs that arm functional if he wants to get paid, so he stops, waiting. 

“There,” Ryan says, smooth as honey as his grip slackens. “Now come on, and stop being such a bitch.”

Ray doesn’t know where he’s supposed to follow him to. But when Ryan drives them to the garage of his penthouse, he’s hardly surprised. 

 

///

 

And 15 months in, when Ray takes out his own personal key to unlock the door to that same penthouse, the severity doesn’t weight too heavily on his mind. They work together all week, anyway, it was only logical. 

But something was amiss. Ryan was gone, and there was a note, with the words “ _armory_ ” scribbled across it. Curiously, mildly worried, and entirely entertained, Ray follows the instructions and clambers down the stairs, taking two at a time, his sidearm at the ready, just in case. 

He stops dead at the sight awaiting him. 

Where there had always been a blank wall next to Ryan’s mountainous piles and racks of weaponry, there was a new addition. From three feet above the ground to ceiling level was a new racking system, and it was completely filled with shiny new toys. Rifles, shotguns, submachine guns, 10 variations of pistols and handguns, a grenade launcher, and in the middle of it all, a completely customized Remington 700, the most beautiful sniper rifle Ray had ever seen. The bottom corner had a littering of scopes, bi-pods, suppressors; everything Ray would ever need. Everything he could ever want.

The entire collection was blasted with a bright pink sheen of paint. 

Ray’s eyes stung as he reached forward, hardly willing to believe what was laid out before him. It was then that his eyes caught a note, pinned against the bottom rung. His hands shook, they  _shook_ , as he took it. 

 _Brownman,_  
_Always keep your weapons close. You’ll never learn.  
(I customized them in the shade of color most befitting your bitch ass)._

It had cost thousands. Tens of thousands. More.

And he still couldn’t stop shaking.

 

///

 

They’re so used to working together that it’s almost nerve wracking to be apart. Ray gets quick contract jobs, one kill, and the money is wired directly to him. No middle man, no interaction needed. He didn’t even have to leave the penthouse sometimes, only maneuver himself to the roof. He’d be back before lunch.

Hitting a target even 1000 yards out was child’s play to him, and an easy way to soak up cash during recovery periods, where bruises adorned his body and barely missed slashes were still being held together by stitches. 

But instead of an upbeat nature upon his return, Ryan is greeted with a cautious, slow-moving Ray coming through the door, a noticeable limp that he desperately tries to hide, and blood all over his fist. His lip is split, and there’s already a large bruise forming against his jaw. 

“Whoa, what happened?”

Ray looks up to greet him, and grins. 

“It was a set up. The dude we offed last week, over by the beach? His brother was mad as fuck,” Ray laughs, and it’s alarming, almost, to see him there, specks of blood in his hair and his hands gripping his weapon so,  _so_ tight. 

“Tried to get me on the roof. Wanted to do it old fashioned style.” He looked up at Ryan, and smiled. “Looks like those tricks you taught me came in handy. Never thought I’d be in hand to hand combat like that.”

Ray walked down the steps, coming to sit across from Ryan, oblivious about the blood he was leaving on the couch. The fireplace next to them burned hot, and car chases were on the news, soft noise behind them. 

“Was that the first guy you killed without a gun?”

“Without a gun, or a blade,” Ray agreed, and it’s heavy. It’s light. He can’t decide, he can only feel, and he’s already flashing back to the rooftop, the guy pinned beneath him as his fists become slippery with blood, the face below him becomes more and more unrecognizable, his high becomes more potent. It was a rush like no other, and he couldn’t come down. “I beat him to death. I killed him with my own fucking bare hands, and it was so  _good_.”

Ryan smirks, and there’s a flash of appreciation, of jealousy, of lust, of pride, and for once, Ray feels invincible. He feels equal, and he can’t settle down. He needs to keep feeling, something needs to happen, again and again, before the adrenaline subsides and he’ll be back to getting high on the couch downstairs. Ryan is staring at him like he never had before, evaluating him, watching every move of his body and shamelessly running his eyes over every part he can see, and Ray is drowning in it. He loves it. 

“You keep talking about it, and I’m going to have to fuck you,” Ryan says, and it’s a declaration. There’s no question in it, no tease, and it’s so blatant and honest and  _promising_ that Ray can feel his dick twitch in his pants at the idea.

And maybe it’s the high he’s riding, maybe it’s sheer, dumb curiosity, but he hesitates only a moment before responding, “If that’s true, I’ll be killing a lot more violently from now on.”

And that’s all it took for Ryan’s eyes to darken, his fingers twitched. He barely moved but a change came over him, and Ray’s heartbeat turned erratic. He stood, picking up his rifle as he went, not bothering to conceal the bulge that had formed in the front of his jeans. This moment was his, and his pulse was fast now, just as it had been only half an hour ago when he felt his assailant’s life leave him between his fingertips. 

He took himself down to the armory and began to carefully disassemble his weapon, cleaning every part meticulously. He hadn’t even used it, but flecks of blood adored the pristine pink finish, and he couldn’t have that. Blood was still on his jacket, and his face ached, but he couldn’t slow down. He had shifted the dynamic between him and Ryan, he had given the invitation, taken Ryan’s offer and enticed him with it. 

It’s no big surprise when he hears Ryan’s footsteps on the stairs. He’s not sure he’s even nervous. He remains where he is, standing over the table and carefully running his fingers over the pieces of his rifle until Ryan is behind him, fingers sliding cautiously around his hip. 

Ray breathes in deep, because he knows what happens next, but he’s not sure what happens with  _Ryan_ next, but he realizes that should have known when Ryan is fisting Ray’s hair hard in his hand, pulling Ray’s head back, and slamming his chest into the wall. 

For all of Ray’s false modesty, he never knew the idea of being used would get him so hard. 

Ryan is running up hand up Ray’s shirt, feeling, discovering. He lingers on the jut of his hipbone, testing how hard he has to grip it to maneuver Ray wherever he’d like, before sliding his fingers up the side of Ray's chest, soft fingertips rubbing at his nipple until Ray whines and arches his back. 

He feels Ryan smile against the back of his neck, and it’s dangerous. Ray can’t bring himself to admit that he doesn’t feel entirely safe, still. But that same fear is sending blood straight to his dick, and it’s so difficult to want to waste precious seconds worrying about what’s to come when so far, it feels fucking incredible. 

“Do you know how hot you get me?” Ryan asked, and Ray is honestly surprised. He wouldn’t have pegged Ryan for a talker, imagining more of a silent presence, heavy but quiet. Ryan moved his hand back down to Ray’s hip, keeping one hand fisted in his hair and the side of Ray’s face up against the wall, pulling his hips back into Ryan’s. Ray can feel him, hard against the denim of his pants, and he stifles a moan. 

“You’re so good at what you do, do you know that?” Ryan asks, low and precise, and his hand is undoing Ray’s jeans. “I’ve never seen someone kill so effectively. For me, it’s a hobby, for you, it’s an fucking  _art_. Every time I see you after a kill, that sick smile on your face and that fucking rifle in your hands, part of me loses it.” He slips his fingers into Ray’s pants, curling them around Ray’s fully hardened cock. Ray gasps against the wall, heat rising to his face as he braces himself. Ryan smiles again. “I want to wreck you after every mission. So fucking  _hard_.”

And then Ryan’s hand is moving, and Ray’s thoughts are clouded as he shudders in appreciation. The pain of his forming bruises and the pull of Ryan’s fingers in his hair only add to the overwhelming sensations as Ryan quickens his pace, pulling Ray’s cock completely free of his jeans and running his thumb over the head, wiping away the precum. 

Ray feels himself falling already, sweat beginning to form in a fine layer over his body as he lets out a soft curse, trying to both thrust into Ryan’s hand and press himself back against the cock that’s pushing up against his ass. 

Even Ryan’s movements are shaky, his breath coming in fast and swallow, and Ray wonders how long he’s wanted this. Ryan moves, releasing Ray’s hair to grab his wrists and pin them on the wall above him, using his other hand to push down the loose folds of Ray’s pants and boxers. There’s a quiet shuffle, and Ray can hear Ryan unbuckling himself. 

The sound goes straight to his dick, and he groans despite himself when Ryan presses up against him, hard cock against hot skin. He jerks backwards, involuntary, and Ryan smirks into his neck, steadying him, his whisper warm against over-sensitized flesh. 

“Calm down, you can have it.”

And that, more than anything, sends Ray reeling. 

“Fuck, Ryan,  _please_ …”

And he’s almost embarrassed by how desperate he is, but he still hasn’t come down from his adrenaline rush, and this is fuel for the fire, sending his body into flames of lust, of want, and he  _needs_ every feeling he can get right now, wants to be used, wants to be taken. 

“I didn’t ask you to beg,” Ryan says, bemused, tightening his grip on Ray’s wrists as he coats his fingers in his mouth. “But I think I like it.”

Ray feels those same fingers against him, teasing him, and he whines again, a complete and utter mess. He’s never needed something so badly before, never been so turned on, so eager to please. Ryan is waiting, circling his opening and drawing out Ray’s pleasure until Ray finally gives in. 

“Please! Ryan, please, fuck me.  _Please_.”

And it’s all Ryan needs, slipping his fingers into Ray so suddenly Ray jerks forward before falling back against Ryan as best he could up against the wall. His cock twitches in appreciation as Ryan slides in and out, stretching him, crooking his fingers and listening to the way Ray moans, figuring out how best to make him squirm. 

He pulls out quickly, and Ray has the blinding, incredible thought that Ryan might even be more eager than he is before he feels lips on his neck, biting gently as Ryan’s body is presses up against him. Ray’s breath is coming in shuddering gasps, and there are million words on his tongue, pleading and begging, but nothing comes out. 

“You want it, baby?”

Ray lets out a choked sob, because god,  _yes_ , and he looks over his shoulder to meet Ryan’s eyes, pools of dark brown encased by black lust and it sends him reeling again. But there’s hardly time to care about repercussions, because the tip of Ryan’s cock is in him and it’s all Ray can do to face forward and take him. It’s tortuously slow, and the sting of pain is new and fresh, but once Ryan is full inside the pain subsides, leaving only the ache of arousal.

Ryan is lost, his chest up against Ray’s back as he soaks in the moment, the feeling of being encompassed entirely by Ray and placing one, single kiss to Ray’s spine. 

If Ray wanted to dwell on that, he didn’t have the chance, because Ryan began to move, and Ray saw stars. 

Ray gasped and let his head fall forward against the wall. His cock was straining against him, begging him to touch, but each time he tried to move his arms Ryan firmed his grip on Ray’s hands, leaving him helpless against the wall. His free hand had moved back to Ray’s thigh, and he was using it as leverage to fuck him hard and slow, sending jolts of pleasure through Ray each time he buried himself deep. Fingers tighten around Ray, leaving half-moon imprints of Ryan’s fingernails. 

“Fuck, Ray…”

Ray nearly comes at that, the sound of his name wrapped around Ryan’s quiet, desperate demeanor. He groans and tries to buck back into Ryan, but Ryan slows his thrusts each time Ray attempts it. 

Always in control. 

So Ray lets himself be taken, lets Ryan bruise his hips and strain his wrists as he fucks him against the wall so hard that the rifle parts on the table rattle with each movement. Ray is a mess, moaning and sweating and silently pleading for more, whining each time those nails dig a little deeper, or when Ryan slips and lets out a quiet curse, another whispered, strangled cry of Ray’s name.

His thrusts become erratic, hard and full of purpose and he comes hard into Ray, milking every last bit of the moment by keeping himself deep, letting Ray move back against him just enough to savor those last, shallow jerks before Ryan is spent, letting his forehead rest against the hot skin of Ray’s back as he tries to control his breathing. 

He regains himself quickly, moving to push himself away from Ray and pull out, but Ray bucks back with him, stopping him with a soft cry of “Wait…!”

And Ryan is hesitant for only a moment, before he smiles, and whatever malice he had lost while deep within Ray has returned, the teasing, cocky, self-assured glint in his eyes is back, and he brings a hand up to grip Rays’ aching cock. 

“Say it.”

And Ryan knows what he wants, because they’ve always known, they’ve always sensed each other in ways that were unimaginable. Ray’s cheeks burn, but he won’t be humiliated; surprisingly, he’s not even scared to admit what he wants. He’s never felt less shameful in his life. 

“I want you inside me when I come."

And despite knowing what Ray was going to say, Ryan makes a strangled sound, and Ray can feel his sensitive cock twitch inside him, and he breaths heavy, filled with he knowledge that if he can make Ryan hard again so soon after he’s spent, he’d likely be able to have him on his knees, too.

The thought alone nearly makes him lose it. 

But Ryan is stroking him now, fast and easy movements, just like Ray likes it. Quick, and full of all the right intentions. It takes only seconds before he’s shuddering, Ryan’s name on his lips as he spills over Ryan’s hand and collapses against the cold wall. 

He expects it to get strange between them after that. But it never does.

 

///

 

18 months and their carnage in the streets is matched only by their ferocity in bed, both of which often lead to the other. Ray is at his prime, alert and self aware in a constant state of animistic behavior. Ryan becomes overly confident, planning foolish run-ins and taking the streets by storm, but they never fall. The closer to death they find themselves, the more potent their time together becomes, and they feed off of one another, all strengths and hidden weaknesses that balance each other until they are unstoppable. They never falter, and they never waver. 

Ray learns. He can pack a punch now, along with high velocity impact and serious knife skills, and Ryan’s intellect is pristine. Ryan divulges his experiences, his past mistakes and his challenges, and Ray studies them, using the knowledge to overcome situations he learns to avoid entirely. 

They get their kills and keep their money, and their penthouse is nothing but whiskey, street tacos, mags, and the heavy air of sex. In the darkness, with the lights of the city overwhelming their darkened room, they speak in quiet tones, haphazardly rolled blunts dangling from their fingers as they spoke of past lives, past loves. Their losses, and their gains. Ray learns, and Ryan is soft, the underbelly of the beast exposed, but Ryan doesn’t seem troubled by the vulnerability. Just reminds Ray to stay vigilant. Keep his gun at his side, always. Learn what power means. Know how to obtain it. 

But in the dead of night, when they are spent against the sheets and the world around them stops spinning, Ray drops the act of pretending to care and moves Ryan’s hair from his face. He never wanted power anyway, he thinks, and Ryan sleeps on beside him.

 

///

 

It changes, as it always does, and when the bullet goes straight into Ryan, Ray’s vision is white. He’s fast, and the sniper on the roof is dead before he could line up his next shot. Ryan is bleeding, knocked backwards onto the ground but alert. Grimacing and in pain, but alive, his hand pressed against the wound in his shoulder and Ray can only praise his luck for untrained professionals. They never know how to line it up properly. They never bother to learn the math. 

The penthouse is stained with Ryan’s blood by the time Ray gets him patched up, entry wound and exit wound and too much blood loss, but he’s alive. And that’s really all Ray can keep repeating in his head, trying to avoid the lingering thought of  _how_. 

But Ryan doesn’t, because he’ll always go straight for the throat, even if it kills him. 

“Someone knew we were going to be there,” he mumbles, after the hefty pain pills have kicked in and his eyes are sagging. “Someone has been tracking us.”

“No one tracks us,” Ray responds, offhand, clearing up the bloodied clothes from the floor. “We’re too good for that.”

“Exactly,” Ryan responds, and it’s sad. Heartfelt. And maybe if Ray hadn’t chalked it up to the drugs, he might have looked into it more.

 

///

 

Ryan recovered quickly, but his presence was stifled. Slightly unhinged. Ray knew he was worried, but it seemed deeper than that. A lingering dismay that filtered over into every part of him, and sometimes, when Ray looked into his eyes, there was nothing there looking back at him. 

So that night, when he feels the barrel of the gun against his head as he sits on the couch, he’s still not entirely surprised. 

He could get Ryan first, he had always been faster. Had always been quicker on the draw. But with a sick sort of realization, he knew his pistol was no where near him. 

“Always keep your gun at your side, Ray. Always.”

And it was the saddest that Ray had ever heard him say, and the sound breaks his heart. He doubt he’d have touched his gun anyway, even if it had been with him. 

“Ryan. It’s not me, you know that. I’d never give you away.” Ray responded, and his voice wavered. He was watching all of this from a distance, this wasn’t reality. This wasn’t happening. 

“I’ve already lost to you,” Ryan said, quiet, but the danger was gone. There was nothing but sorrow, plain and heavy. “I told you too much. Let you in too deep, and now you have that over me,” he paused, and it was full of regret, of pain. “Fuck Ray,  _why?!_ Why would let me in?!”

Ray’s vision was blurred, and he was vaguely aware of the tears. Please god, _no_. 

“You know why,” he answered quietly, but he knew his pleas wouldn’t be enough. Ryan had already made up his mind, had spent days considering this, avoiding Ray and making a decision. Ray’s heart was pounding. 

“You said information wasn’t power, Ryan,” he said, and his voice shook and cracked. “You said it wasn’t. Please, don’t do this. Ryan.  _Please_.”

“Information isn’t the most powerful,” Ryan spoke, heavy and cold and broken, and he cocked the gun behind Ray’s head. “I am.”

The shot rang out, followed by the soft thump of Ray’s body falling to the floor, but it went unheard in the vast chaos of the city. The only new sound in Los Santos that night was the heaving sobs of Ryan the Vagabond, face buried deep in the only thing that had ever held power over him. The only thing he had ever loved.

Some people never learn.


End file.
